


in the mirror is another you

by misterioso



Category: VIXX
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dissociation, Distrust, Emotional Roller Coaster, Gen, Lowercase, Multiple Personalities, POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15581865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misterioso/pseuds/misterioso
Summary: he wraps his hand around your throat and whispers his (your) desires in your ear (soul).





	in the mirror is another you

**Author's Note:**

> originally written in august 2015 when "beautiful liar" first came out. it was such a wonderful mv, i couldn't help but write a story about it. why did it take so long to post? blame it on my inability to sit down and edit it.

in the mirror is another you.

you glimpse him in flashes of light. see a strong hunger in his eyes. a ferocity that terrifies you.

so you hid him away, in the depths of darkness, and forgot his existence. focused on everything except him. forced yourself to. he’s dangerous in ways you know all too well, so you’ll hide him.

 

except you can’t do it forever.

 

he’s light. happiness and joy and love. he exalts, somersaults, while you only smile. it’s all warm, fuzzy, and he’s the passion that makes it easy to hold their hand, to pull them aside and kiss them until they melt into your embrace.

he’s nice, when you’re in love. he’s everything.

 

he’s everywhere. all over them. possessive in a way you know isn’t healthy. paranoid when you know better. he messes with your mind until all you see is white-hot rage and all you hear is your voice full of distrust aiming it at them, until they cry and run and slam the door with a finality that leaves you exhausted.

 

the day they hand you the wedding invitation, the one you both worked on for weeks to design, in dark blue with neat silver ink, is also the day they leave.

they’re going to their—

(“lover’s house”)

—parents' home. they already explained everything. next time, they’ll listen to their mother. they always turn out to be right about the men in their life.

you say nothing. simply because there’s nothing left to say.

sorry never cuts it. not when he’s involved. and with him staring intently at you, sitting just beside you, that same possessive want filling his dark eyes, you don’t trust yourself to speak.

so you let them pack their things. let them walk away. watch them leave in silence, while you hold yourself and don’t give in to him, not again.

 

you play the piano, early morning, when the practice room is empty and the light hits the keys just so. keeps them warm, shines right off them. it soothes a wounded part of you like nothing else. keeps you focused as he wraps his hand around your throat and whispers his (your) desires in your ear (soul).

 

the first time it had happened was in high school. you were a teenager, driven by him without proper reigns. you just let him take you for a ride. let him take them for a ride until all that was left were the fumes.

the second time, you knew better. kept an eye out for him, but they had their own issues. kept running at you, kept egging him on, kept asking for this—until you were tired and withdrew and that’s when they left. had enough of the silence and ice where before there had been an uncontrollable fire of desire.

the third, fourth, and fifth time you let them lead and learned them. how to love them, how to give them their space, how to be trusting and happy in love. but more importantly, you learned him. what riled him up beyond comprehension, what calmed him down within seconds, how to control him.

still, they left because you were at a different points in your lives and because despite everything, somehow, somehow he still wouldn’t settle.

 

this is the sixth time.

they lived and laughed and loved you like no other. kept you smiling when you didn’t feel like you could. even he had settled. would stay calmed unless you stirred him up. (as you thought it always should’ve been. you leading him, not the other way around.)

except something goes wrong. something always goes wrong.

his paranoia kicks in when you see them flirting with another person. a friend of theirs. and everything— _everything_ that you’d kept under lock and key washes over him, over _you_.

that was the sixth time.

 

your parents, friends, extended family, co-workers, students all ask: what happened? you were doing so well. they thought you two would be together forever.

(“they cheated. from the start they were—”)

“i don’t know,” you say into the phone, through texts, over cups of coffee, with a smile and a shrug. “things just play out like this sometimes.”

 

his voice is loud when you try to sleep. he has a way with words and makes your mind play it all out like a movie, all high definition and surround sound. things that never were. things that never would be.

he’s convincing sometimes. frustrating the rest.

 

you meet in a coffee shop. like your first official date.

this’ll taint it though. turn that sweet memory all bitter. (which is why you sip at the too-sweet coffee while you wait for them to arrive.)

they slide the keys to your apartment across the table. say things about remembering to change the lock code. asks to please, please delete their number off your phone. they’d already done the same.

the keys are there, just laying across the table and you want to reach to take them back. want to take _them_ back.

(he knocks the keys off the table. they clatter on the floor, a sound like glass breaking. a heavy weight settles into you that makes your already weighed-down heart sink further.

you know what’s coming next. don’t need to look at him to see, but you do. and you see clearly all of his intentions, to take them back, to make them his. can read the sick script he’d written down playing across his face, all there in his lovelorn eyes.)

they finished speaking a long time ago. were getting up to leave. their story with you had ended. the chapter of their life with your name was on its final page. _a life without you_ was next in their book.

(he intends to run.)

you stand.

(he goes.)

you’re holding yourself back.

(holding him back, gripping tight onto his arm and he struggles to get loose, to get to them, whatever it takes. he slips through your grip like water and you grab at whatever part of him you can, but you can’t hold on.)

they’re opening the door and you’re a few steps behind, keys forgotten on the floor.

(he’s chasing and you’re dragging—no, you’re being dragged. by him. and he’s saying, screaming, “don’t you love them? why are you letting them walk out!? they’re _leaving_!”

and you’re aching everywhere. heart hurting like nothing else because though the breakups are different, the whys and wherefores are all the same, the pain always fresh. always new. a hard thing to endure. and he fights it at the start. a hypocritical thing that makes him all the more human, for he was the one that started it all. the one that made life and love in life impossible.)

they stop at the door and look at you.

(he’s still moving, still trying to say, “i’m sorry, i love you, i love you so much it hurts, come back, please,” as if that would be enough to make them stay.)

you look away. want to take a step forward, try saying his words—

(—and he’s trying to make you say them, forcing your mouth to move as you choke on his words—)

—but you step back—

(—pull him back—)

—turn away from them until you hear the door open and shut, and hear the silence of a cafe and a life without them.

(and he lets himself fall this time. lets himself be pulled into your arms.

and he’s screaming, every atom of his being is. his arms—tattooed with the loves you felt throughout your life, the pain you endured over them, before, after, and during—are tight around you. not fighting, but clinging, nails digging in.

and you caress his bare back. gentle strokes that says you’re sorry. sorry because he’s hurting. sorry because he’ll be hurting for a long, long time. because he feels every pain for eternities.

and you run a hand through his hair as he quietly sobs against your neck, wetting it with his tears.

and you whisper, with all the tenderness of a freshly broken heart, “i’m sorry.”)

 

you pick up the keys. the one’s they’d left on the table.

your hands are shaking as you pocket them. feel like crying as you walk out of the cafe and head home.

(he’s wailing like he’s dying.)

 

a cold silence comes over him as you enter your—once also their—home.

it’s like he’s punishing you for having to come here. for having to wash and see the half-empty bottle of their shampoo left behind, like it didn’t matter enough for them to pack it away. for having to walk past pictures of their smiling face. for having to lay in a bed too big for one and still smell their scent between cold sheets.

you stare at the ceiling. turn on your side. see him, standing like a shadow against the window, staring at where they’d slept.

you turn away, avoid the tears that form in his eyes, and curl into yourself.

 

in the morning, when you wake, he’s still there. staring. like he hadn’t moved an inch in the night. a silent statue of mourning.

 

(“we could’ve kept them, if you hadn’t been so—”)

 

it had taken time to learn him. what wound him up and brought him back. you’d learned him well, you thought. had him all figured out.

it was probably because they were different. it’s why he won’t settle like he used to. where a well placed “it’s okay” and a smile won't work anymore. only earns you an accusatory glare.

he blames you. finds it easy to lay it all at your feet. _you’re_ why they left. _you’re_ why they won’t call you back. _you’re_ why they won’t come and knock on your door, asking for a do-over, a second chance.

you don’t have the courage to tell him the truth.

 

one day, as you’re cautiously playing a song, trying to regain the feeling for it— _liebestraum no.3 love dream_ —and it’s hard. like relearning to ride a bicycle you haven’t ridden in a lifetime.

(he stares at your fingers on the keys.)

 _più animato con passione_ , and you bite your lip. press and press and crescendo. focus and ignore the way his gaze is boring into the back of your head.

(“poco allegro,” he says, mocking voice drowning out your piano, “ _con_ affetto.”)

you slam your hands on the keys and glare at him, openly, challenging. he doesn’t look away, nor look ashamed. merely meets your gaze with his red-rimmed eyes.

you leave the room for air.

 

“professor?”

the student, bright eyed and kind of heart, stares at you. there’s a cigarette in their right hand, a composition book in their left.

“you alright? you look pale.”

“i’m fine,” you manage. you’re nowhere near as pale and sick as he’s become. “just needed some air. i’ll be with you in a moment for your lesson.”

the student’s smile is patient and understanding, which only makes your heart ache just a little more.

 

everyone gives you different advice. some say to love again, soon. some say to wait, to heal the hurt and try again when everything’s quiet. some say love will always find a way and some say it is little more than tricks of neurons and chemicals.

(he says, “they were love. _they_ were _love_.”)

bottle against your lips, you say, “we’ll see.”

 

he’s like the changing autumn weather. all heat one day, then cold winds the next. is a violent storm and lengthy silence, where you can hear the softest crunch of leaves underfoot as you go about relearning to live a life without them.

 

(“you’re not going to try, are you?”)

you wash the dishes. one bowl, the side dish plates, the glass cup.

(“you’ve really given up?”)

the dishes dry on the rack. you cross the room to open the windows. let the crisp, fresh air whip across your face and clear out the room.

(“bastard.”)

 

on the anniversary of your engagement, he’s insufferable.

singing. screaming. sobbing.

he’s going to walk out the door only you grip him tight and pull him back. lock the doors and throw away the keys. vanishing his only escape.

he’s vengeful, like a spirit. throwing away everything that reminded him of them. clearing out your home of every reminder of their existence.

you watch, in silence, letting him do as he pleases. and not even five minutes later, he’s crying again. heaving heavy sobs, leaning awkwardly against the sofa, holding a picture of them and you and the sea shimmering brightly, reflecting the noonday sun.

you move then. walk until you’re beside him.

you run a hand through his hair, and he shivers. quiets, but keeps crying and you feel him shake all the more when you sit beside him and wrap an arm around his slim shoulders.

 

that night, as he sleeps, curled up on your sofa, an angry tired ball, you finish what he had started. have all the framed pictures and gifts and trinkets of what used to be all in one large trash bag.

you haul it from the tenth floor to the garbage bins outside using the stairs. a penance that was long overdue.

 

he’s sluggish all through winter. only bothers you when they start promoting christmas love stories, or playing commercials with smiling couples.

he gets extra quiet when you’re in a cafe and, as if he knows you expect better of him, doesn’t mention or react to the couples sitting there, giggling happily, beaming brightly.

 

(“it was my fault,” he says while you’re watching your student’s recital, just one amongst many in a dark theatre. “i was the one who…”)

you only glance at him. can’t say anything, because he looks as if he’d break if you did.

you continue to watch the performance in silence and he does, too.

 

there is grading. there are parties. there is a trip to visit your family, then a one-day-early return home. then it goes on and on and on, life.

he hides himself this time. the pain and guilt a burden he has to examine on his own. a pain he’d caused that would be long-lasting. something that still needed more time to heal.

but you had your life, and he had learned to respect that. let you get on with it with quietly until you wake up one day and he’s just gone.

you feel bereft. like the core of you had been stolen when you had no chance to fight for it to stay. and you realize, with tears in your eyes and your entire being shaking with suppressed cries, this is what he’d been feeling all along.

“come back,” you say, voice quivering as tears wash down your cheeks. “please. _please_ , come back.”

in the answering silence, you wail as you break anew. sob because there’s no comforting hand with steady understanding to lay over your shoulder. scream because it’s not fair, not fair, _not fair!_

 

a ghost of a voice, a shadow of what he used to be, echos in your dreams, “it was never me. it was always, _always_ you.”

 

you wake late at night, eyes puffy and swollen, throat raw, a throbbing headache.

as you eat a late meal, your only meal of that day, those words repeat in your head. the hard-to-bear truth.

you wash the dishes then go and wash your face. see your reflected self in the mirror and your heart races as a flash of him appears and disappears between blinks. you’re left with your own reflection, and it’s like seeing another, dark-haired version of him: same red-rimmed eyes, same sickly complexion, same sadness.

it was never him. it had never been him. he’d never caused a problem, never whispered in your ear things you yourself hadn’t thought of before. had never reacted in a way he hadn’t already seen you react.

he wasn’t the problem. he was your problems.

you collapse against the tub, exhausted.

 

it’s a pain to go through it all again. valentine’s day. white day. black day (and you avoid the other singles who want to drag you out for a meal, because “we all should stick together”). rose day (though you smile and duck your head as students bravely hand you roses). kiss day. and so on and so forth.

but you endure. everything you feel now is yours alone to suffer. and as you pour it into your compositions, you feel yourself slowly being lifted from the anguish that would now be shared with the birds (at least until you polish the raw emotions, make it more agreeable to the ear and heartwrenching for the emotions).

and every so often, you hope for the day when you wake with no pain.

 

he comes back. the day you’re all right with life, the sore spot inside you having healed with just the scar tissue left to prove you’d been wounded, that's the day he comes back.

you don’t see him when you first wake, but rather after your shower, when you wipe off the steam clouding the mirror.

he’s there, and he’s different. skin healthy. eyes rested, no bags or redness around them at all.

he’s got a new tattoo. a set of lavender flowers surrounded by barbed wire, their name in the same font as the wedding invitations, their handwriting.

you stare at it for a long time.

(“hi.” that’s all he says.)

you look away from the tattoo and find his eyes. there’s still pain there, always would be, but it’s dulled. old.

“hi,” and you realize as you say that, as he smiles fondly at you and you return the smile with equal fondness, it’s time to start anew. life was waiting, and with it love, and with it him.

**Author's Note:**

> i do recommend looking up "liebestraum no.3 love dream" because it is a really beautiful song.
> 
> also, if anyone got confused, because my characters all decided to be vague about the use of their names in the fic: you = taekwoon, he/him = ravi, and they/them = unnamed love interests (the sixth/main love interest is, of course, the woman that appears in the mv).


End file.
